Interim
by Marenfic
Summary: Interim-- An interval of time between one event, process, or period and another. That's what this is. Spoilers for Angel Season 4. Complete


_Interim_

When he tells Faith this will probably be the last thing she does before she dies, she doesn't even bat an eyelash. Something in him expected as much—he had never known her well, but he knows enough to recognize the unflinching fighter who resides inside her. He also knows how important Angel is to her, even now when she hasn't heard from him in nearly two years.

He knows that she believes in Angel so completely that she'll do whatever is necessary to restore his soul to his body.

Wesley wishes he still felt the same.

He watches her rifle through his icebox as she looks for something to eat. A slight twinge at the edge of his consciousness is his only reminder that he is sending her to what will likely be her death in less than an hour. He idly wonders what she will choose as her last meal. Unbidden, a chuckle escapes from his throat as he sees the frosted bottle of vodka she pulls out of the freezer.

Faith ignores him completely as she picks the least-dirty highball glass out of his sink and rinses it off. The _clink-tink _of ice cubes sounds absurdly loud in the space between them. He can see the icy mist envelope the glass as she pours the cold vodka over the colder ice and for a single moment he hopes that she changes her mind and tells them all they can rot in hell. It doesn't last—hope is foreign enough to him now that it can't pass under his emotional radar and he extinguishes it quickly. He has been burned by hope too many times before.

The clear liquid slides through her lips and slips down her throat in two long swallows. Then the sound of the bottle chinking against the lip of the glass, and this time the air has warmed the ingredients enough that where there was frost before, now there are little beads of perspiration that dot the glass where her hand had been. He remembers how hot her touch is. In his memory, it scalded him only a fraction less than the flame from the blowtorch. Somewhere, in the recesses of his mind where knowledge of the laws of nature are stored, he knows that his memory can't be real. Still, it is vivid, both in his nightmares and in his most secret fantasies.

She pulls out a chair from the table and plops down in it, staring at the ice cubes in her glass as though expecting them to magically generate more vodka to swim in.

"Do you ever wonder what your life would be like if there were no such things as rock demons and friends who sometimes turn into their evil vampire counterparts and start killing the people you care about?" she suddenly asks as she continues to stare at the ice cubes that rest in the bottom of the otherwise empty glass.

He looks at her closely, tries to decipher the hidden meaning in her words. All he can see is a bloody and beaten young woman who looks a little lost despite her attempts at bravado. Seconds tick by as he considers whether to answer her. When he starts talking, he isn't sure exactly what might come out of his mouth.

"I used to dream about being a writer. I would spend hours in my grandfather's dusty attic and devise elaborate stories of the trials and tribulations of the people who once used the things that were stored away there," he says. He's a bit surprised at the admission, wonders if it is true or if he has turned into a liar as well as a betrayer, and then remembers the way the sunlight used to dance through the dust until the dirt sparkled in the air. The floating particles of dust were tiny fairies in his imagination. He can barely recall how quickly his dreams that there was something lovely and magical frolicking through the air were shattered. They were replaced by the terrifying knowledge that there were plenty of magical creatures in this world, none of which he would ever want to meet in his grandfather's attic.

Faith looks up at him through her eyelashes and he can see the spark of something he can't quite identify in the brown depths. He frowns and shifts awkwardly against the doorframe. A splinter pokes through the weave of his shirt and he welcomes the distraction that the sharp prick of pain provides.

"I can see that. . . I mean, that seems like you," she says, and he searches her words and intonation for any sarcasm or derision, but all he can find is quiet sincerity.

He clears his throat. "Yes, well. . ."

Again, there is silence. He is just about to turn around and mumble an excuse to go outside and escape the oppressive aura that has settled over his apartment, when she speaks again.

"So why couldn't you still do that. . . be a writer, I mean? I bet you have a great imagination, with plenty of real-life freakiness to draw on when the well runs dry," she asks, and this time she tilts her head and looks him straight in the eye. He can see curiosity, and something that looks like longing staring at him. This is not the first time he is struck by the sheer intensity of emotion that Faith's face can display.

When he answers, his voice is quiet and laced with a bitterness that comes all too easily these days. "There's no use for imagination in a world where the monsters are real and the worst kinds are the ones that live inside you."

The smirk that crosses her face is automatic, a well-honed defense against being touched by a truth that is too sharp and painful. He sees it . . . understands where it comes from. Expecting a biting comeback, he is surprised to see the smirk fade instead as she looks back down into her glass and shakes her head.

"Fuck," she mutters, a stuttering rumble sounding through the room as she pushes her chair back over the rough linoleum of the floor and stands up. He watches as the chair rocks unsteadily behind her, the force of her movements nearly tipping it over. It settles back into place with a loud thump as the front legs once again connect with the floor.

"My sentiments exactly," he returns. With measured control that stands in stark contrast to her hurried, forceful motions, he pushes slowly away from the doorway and walks to the sink to grab his own glass. He pours himself a shot, sans ice, and drinks it down. The movements are fluid and well-practiced. Raising an eyebrow, he silently offers her a refill. She accepts with her equally well-practiced seductive smile. When her glass is full, she sets it aside long enough to jump up so that she is sitting on the counter.

"Quid pro quo, right? Or at least that's what the creepy guy from that movie always said, and I have to tell you, you're reminding me of him a little these days Wes," she begins. A few beats of silence, and then. . . "When I was a kid, I wanted to be a rock star."

It's his turn to smirk. "That explains a lot, actually."

She raises her empty hand and extends her middle finger, but the little smile on her face is the first real one he's seen since he proposed that she sacrifice herself if she wanted to save Angel. It doesn't matter that seconds later it turns a little wistful. It's still genuine, and the part of him that still appreciates sincerity finds it beautiful.

Faith tips back her glass and gulps down the contents before setting it back down on the counter with a little bang. She braces her arms on either side of her and leans slightly forward as she swings her legs back and forth. It occurs to him that a stranger might see her and assume she is carefree. No one would guess the truth.

"I used to steal my mom's boyfriend's metal tapes and blast them in this cheap little boom box I got for Christmas one year when I was alone. I'd turn the music up so loud that the bitch downstairs would bang on her ceiling with a broom handle, but I just ignored it. I could get lost for hours in the sound, forget who I was, and pretend that I was rich and famous and that people fuckin' loved me. . ."

Her voice trails off as her legs stop swinging. He follows her line of vision, but all he can see is the putrid green of the kitchen floor. For a moment he wonders what she is seeing. Then she looks back up at him, and he knows that she was seeing the moment her rock star dreams were shattered.

"I suppose that being informed one is a potential Slayer, and then being called, get in the way of developing a loyal fan base," he says.

She lets out a little snort and nods. "That, and the fact that I can't sing worth a damn, even for a metal band singer."

Sitting up, she pulls one arm across her chest and applies pressure with the other to stretch it. Then she switches arms and repeats the action, this time wincing as the pain from a wound from her fight with the Beast shoots down her limb. He glances at the clock and notices that their planned time of departure is quickly approaching. He is just about to move to gather their supplies when she draws his attention back to her.

"I wanted to be somebody that other people would admire . . . look up to. I just wanted to be special, you know? Wait. Don't answer that. I'm guessing little Wesley didn't have to worry about being noticed. You were probably your parent's wet dream."

His eyes narrow as he regards her, suspicious of her intentions once again. But if this somewhat surreal interlude has taught him anything about her, it is that she can be just as guileless as she can be cunning. He determines that in this instance it is the former, as opposed to the latter.

"We're not as different as you think. I . . . well, I wanted to write engrossing novels that would fascinate my father the way the books in his library did. I wanted to own a piece of his attention. I was too young to know that one should be careful of that which they wish," he murmurs. He doesn't need to speak any louder. Somehow, in this particular time and space, they are connected. He suspects that in this moment she is capable of hearing his very thoughts.

The _tick tick tick _of the clock sounds abnormally loud in the silence that follows. It doesn't stop as it counts down her final minutes.

Faith picks up her glass and tips it toward him. "Here's to lost dreams," she toasts, the wryness in her voice almost covering the misery. He only hears it because he can hear little else these days.

"Salud," he replies, raising his own glass into the air.

They stare at each other, neither taking a sip to consummate the toast. It doesn't matter. Their glasses are empty anyway. It seems fitting. An empty toast for empty dreams.

As he stares into her eyes, he allows himself to briefly hope that she somehow survives the suicide mission in front of her. She jumps off the counter and he turns to pick the syringe filled with orpheus off the table.

When he turns back to hand it to her, his eyes are cold and distant once again.


End file.
